Angel's Devil (15 page)

She smiled back. "Of course."

For the next few days, in fact, she rode with
Simon, he choosing mid-morning as more suitable to her delicate sensibilities.
It gave her little chance to ride as she would have liked, as she had ridden
with James, but she said nothing. That hadn't been at all proper, and she would
simply have to get used to the idea of doing without galloping.

The morning before the Stanfreds were to arrive she
rose later than usual, and had to rush to dress in her blue riding habit and
meet Simon. "Master Simon," Hastings greeted them as he came out of
the stables. "My lady."

"Good morning, Hastings. Saddle Admiral and
Heaven, if you please."

As the groom nodded and turned for the stables,
James emerged mounted on the hunter, Pharaoh. With a nod at them and a kick, he
sent the stallion off at a gallop toward the lake.

"He's a grand rider, ain't he?" Henry's
admiring voice came from the manor path, echoing her own thoughts. She'd been
curious to try Pharaoh herself, though she hadn't found an opportunity to bring
it up with the marquis.

"Henry, why don't you stay here with
Hastings?" Simon unexpectedly suggested. "He'll help you practice
your jumps."

In the blink of an eye Henry's stubborn and
disappointed look turned to a pleased smile. "Would you, Hastings?"

The grizzled head groom grinned at him. "My
pleasure, Master Henry."

As soon as they were mounted, Simon started them
off at a sedate trot along the lake path. "Are you enjoying Abbonley?"

Angel nodded. "It's enchanting," she
smiled, gazing over to her right where she could just see the glitter of the
lake through the trees.

"My father's estate at Wansglen is a great
deal like this, though not nearly so grand." He glanced over at her.
"Of course Turbin Hall is quite interesting, as well. Have I told you it
still has some of the original furniture from when Henry the Eighth came to
visit my great-grandfather?"

"It . . . hasn't been touched at all since
then, you mean?" Angel queried.

"Oh, heavens no. Grandmama refers to it as the
Talbott museum." He gave a short smile. "None of this modernizing
James is so fascinated with. Windows, for example. With the tax on them, how
many does one actually need? And yet James even had more put in for his
kitchens. I'll admit that some innovations might be handy, but after awhile a
place loses its sense of history, don't you think?"

"Oh, of course," Angel returned weakly.
She'd several times complained that her mother treated Niston like a museum,
where no one was supposed to move a stick of furniture without first
conferring with all the ancestral bones buried in the family cemetery. And
Niston was less than half as old as Turbin Hall.

When they reached the picturesque stone bridge that
spanned the stream by the far side of the lake, Simon unexpectedly stopped and
dismounted, then stepped over to help her down as well. He took Angel's hand
and led her over to sit on the low wall of the bridge beside him.

"I'm pleased you came here," he said,
"and I hope that this plan with James hasn't offended you. I know he can
be something of a . . . rakehell, I suppose is the word."

"Not at all," she answered truthfully,
for she enjoyed the marquis's spirited company, and his flirting. He wasn't at
all high in the instep like many of the titled English. Apparently, being a
rake had its advantages. Sometimes she wished she could emulate him, for then
she could behave as she fancied, and hang the consequences.

"That pleases me," Simon commented,
obviously not reading her thoughts. With that, he took her chin in his hand and
drew her face toward his, then kissed her gently on the lips. He repeated the
action, then sat back a little. "It's been far too long since we did that
last," he said.

"When you proposed to me?" she returned,
smiling.

Jenny Smith had told her last Season that being
kissed was like thunder and lightning, but Jenny could be rather silly and
believed all of those giddy novels she read. Kissing Simon reminded her of a
gentle breeze, calm and safe and steady. And, she admitted for the first time,
rather less than exciting.

That thought unexpectedly left her quite sad, and
she took her leave of Simon once they returned to the manor, only to find that
her family had driven into Esterley with Lady Elizabeth. She walked through
the garden, trying to lighten her lowered spirits, but nothing helped. If their
plan was working as well as they believed, they could be married by the end of
the year. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she felt unaccountably lonely. She
left the garden and went inside, wandering through the multitude of elegant
rooms.

Finally she found herself outside her favorite room
at Abbonley. The library door was open so she walked in, heading straight for
the closest of the tall, narrow windows that looked out over the garden. For
several minutes she sat there, gazing out pensively.

"What troubles you, Angelique?'

Angel nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped
her head around to see the marquis seated In one of the overstuffed chairs
close to the fireplace, his gleaming Hessian boots stretched out in front of
him with ankles crossed and a book in one hand.

Blushing furiously at being caught moping like a
peagoose, she started to rise. "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I
didn't know you were in here."

He waved her back toward the sill. "Don't
leave on my account. Just taking advantage of the lull." James looked at
her closely for a moment, making her wonder again if he could read her thoughts.
"Would you like a glass of Madeira or something?"

"It's a bit early for that, don't you
think?" she returned testily.

He glanced up at the clock on the mantel, then
shrugged in his single-shouldered way. "I suppose so." He smiled a
little grimly. "I was never much good at remembering what hours were
socially acceptable for drinking."
              
 

"And now?" she asked, intrigued by his
comment.

"And now I don't have to worry about it,"
he replied. "Part of my reformation, you know."

"That's good, I think," she commented
quietly.

"Thank you," he answered, then cocked his
head at her, his eyes studying her face. "You haven't answered my question."

"Which question?"

"What troubles you?" he repeated softly.

Angelique looked back out the window and shrugged.
"I don't know. I just thought something would be a certain way, and it
wasn't."

He nodded. "I've found that to be true of a
great many things," he responded, typically cynical.

She lifted her chin. "You mean Desiree?"
she asked boldly.

Several emotions, not all of them pleasant, played
across his lean features. "Do I have a lantern above my head that lights
every time you say that name, or something?" he finally asked,

"That's a bit absurd, don't you think?"
she responded, relieved that he wasn't shouting.

"I am simply trying to figure out why you
relate every minuscule particle of my conversation to my sordid past with
Desiree Kensington. You use her name like a knife blade, you know."

"I do no such thing."

"You do," he argued. "And I'd rather
you fling the spear of Miss Peachley in my direction, if you don't mind."

That only served to remind her that he'd selected
Lily Stanfred as his future bride. "I'd fling neither at you if only you'd
let Lily alone," she returned.

James Faring sat back and looked at her. "Am I
so horrible that you can't stand even the thought of your friend being wed to
me?" he queried. "Would I be such a terrible husband?"

"Yes," she answered, rising and moving to
the fireplace. There was a lovely pair of Egyptian-style candlesticks there, and
she lifted ont to examine it.

"Why?"

"Because she's all wrong for you. Lily is very . . . nice. And you
would be completely bored with her. Unless you like to speak of the latest
Paris fashions or the weather."

She felt James walk over to stand behind her. "That's not a very
kind description of a friend," he murmured in his dry voice.
"Besides, I asked why I was wrong for her, not why she was wrong for
me."

Angelique found that she didn't want to move. Her fingers stilled on the
polished brass of the candlestick, her eyes half closed as she listened to the
sound of his voice. "Did you?"

"I did," he continued. "You almost sound as though you're
more concerned with my happiness than with Miss Stanfred's."

"I . . . " Angelique shook herself. "I don't need to be
concerned with your happiness, because you don't believe in love."

She turned to look up at him. For a moment she stood frozen, as his eyes
caught her own. The marquis's fingers crept up to softly stroke her cheek, and
she held her breath. He leaned toward her, and with a shiver she tilted her
face up.

"Sweet Lucifer," he whispered, and abruptly yanked his hand
away and turned his back on her. He cleared his throat, quite unlike the
rakehell he was known to be. "Did I see you eyeing Pharaoh again this
morning?"

Feeling rather ragged, Angel sagged against the mantel. "Y—yes, you
did."

He strode over to the window and pushed it open, leaning out to take a
deep breath. "I was under the impression that you disliked my poor
horse," he said after a moment.

She managed a smile, relieved that he'd turned the conversation."I
have nothing against Pharaoh—only the price you paid for him."

James relaxed a little as well and finally turned back to face her.
"My man, Algers, feels rather the same way."

Down the hall the front door opened, and the sounds of the Graham family
echoed into the library. Angelique quickly headed for the door. "I should
go see what they've been up· to," she muttered.

"Angelique," he called after her, using her, given name for
the second time. "I'm sorry. That won't happen again."

"I know." She—they—had simply become caught up in the game.
For Simon's sake, they could never let it happen again. Mistake or not, though,
the look she had fleetingly seen in his eyes caused her to question feelings
she would rather have let be—particularly the ones surrounding Simon Talbott,
and whether or not she was in love with him.

"My lord, several coaches are approaching."

James looked up from his perusal of the estate ledgers and nodded at his
butler. "Thank you, Simms. Alert the horde, and I'll be along in a few
moments."

A minute later four pairs of feet ran past his office, to the
accompanying sound of children's excited laughter and a large dog barking, and
he sat back and smiled. His household, it seemed, was about to become even
more boisterous. His life had given him little exposure to children, and to his
surprise he was beginning to believe he had been missing something.

Yesterday, after he had witnessed his nodcock cousin kissing Angelique
with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, he had begun to wonder what
might have happened if he had stayed in London and Simon had been the one to go
off to war. It was fairly obvious Angelique was set on some sort of escape from
her parents, and had settled on his cousin as the one to set her free. From her
words in the library, it seemed she'd realized she wanted more from Simon than
that. For the past few days James had been trying to visualize her in the dark
rooms of Turbin Hall, and had been completely unable to conjure the image.
Turbin was no place for a sprite such as Angel.

Hearing her laughter as she greeted Lily Stanfred some fifteen minutes
later cheered him considerably. He noted that while he received a smile from
Miss Stanfred, Simon had somehow earned an
on dit
about the girl's
dressmaker and apparently found it highly amusing.

The Graham twins had young Jeremy Stanfred by the arms as they dragged
him toward the stables. James herded the remaining guests inside to their
respective bedchambers, and announced that they would be picnicking by the lake
at noon.

That accomplished, he made his way up to the attic to recover the
fishing poles he had dug out yesterday. On the way down, he paused by his
grandmother's bedchamber and rapped on the door. At her acknowledgment he
entered. "The Stanfreds have arrived," he told her, leaning against
the door frame.

Elizabeth looked up from the dressing table as her maid finished putting
up her-long white hair. "I would have to be deaf or dead not to know
that," she returned.

"Do you picnic with us?" he asked, grinning at her caustic
words.

She grimaced. "You and your
al fresco
dining." She
sighed. "As matron of the house and the only proprietor of proper behavior
in the family, I suppose I must."

"Yes, Grandmama." He pushed away from the frame.

It was clear from young Jeremy Stanfred's awestruck expression, as he
approached the children, that the Graham twins had been rather liberal in their
description of him and of the Abbonley stables. "My lord marquis," he
bowed, "I've . . . I've brought my Hannibal. Do you think you might teach
us to jump like India and Henry?"